Friday, 29 February 2008

Prince Harry, Coming at You

Here I am again poo-chatters! That's right, Bertram is in Poo Chat overload. After seeing the pictures of my Godson Harry Wales (I suppose most of you refer to him as Prince Harry), I decided you'd all love a peek into what the future holds for world's coolest Royal.

So without further a-do, I give you Prince Harry:

Hi, poo-chatters how are you all getting on? Captain Harry Wales at you service. Bertram informs me that you've all just become aware of my Afghanistan adventure, well, if you liked that: you haven't seen anything yet!

In a week (or possibly two) you will hear that I managed to resolve the issues over there with a combination of hard fighting and serious party action. Yep, those Taliban buggers just needed a swift kick up the arse, followed by a jolly good knees-up.

So here's the debrief: Ghurkha Jim (my best army bud') and I got sick of kicking our heels in front of the press ("awful people" as Dad might groan), so we hatched a plan to sort out this terrible mess. After all it's about time us Royals did something useful.

We strapped on our SA80 assault rifles and ran at the Taliban trenches, the most cunning part of this plan was making Ghurkha Jim wear absolutely nothing, except a pair of fishnet tights (to slightly preserve his modesty). I, of course, was dressed as Poll Pot (I'm trying to "collect the set" of genocidal maniacs).

As soon as we leapt over the enemy trench those silly bastards started pissing themselves. At this point Ghurkha Jim and I decided: shooting them would be poor form. We spent the next two days kicking everybody we came across straight up the arse-hole. That seemed to sort things out, although if I'd have found that dirty-dibo* Ossama I might have made him drink so much Pimm's that his blood sugar would have been off the scale.

Once everyone was back on the straight and narrow it was time to party! Ghurkha Jim emptied his rucksack revealing a mountain of blue-Aftershock (he loves that shit), the Tallywhackers** took one sip and changed the rules of Islam. The party lasted two weeks (it all got a bit stilly once the heroin was being passed around though; those buggers know how to make the good shit).

Anyway, best dash off I'm sorting Iraq out next week (Chelsy wants to come too, silly trout).

Love to you all

Captain Hazza

* Bertram here, "dibo" is Harry's name for Diabetic people; god knows what he's got against them.

** Tallywhackers is Captian Hazza's affectionate name for the Taliban

Tuesday, 26 February 2008

Smakka Shaka Lacker Macca

Have you missed me Poo Chatters? I am awfully sorry but I've been stuck in the past with Paul "Macca" McCartney (no, I'm not referring to his set at the Brit awards) and was rendered incommunicado!

So, allow me to end the Poo Chat drought and let you back in on the excitement, we're back1966 and it's time to drop acid with everyone's third favourite member of Wings: Sir Paul McCartney.

A "whacked out" Paul writes from his silver hammock suspended over an enormous bowl of Heinz lentil soup:

Whoa, hiya guys Paul "Macca" McCartney here. Let me tell you guys that I'm high on LSD and it's one hell of a ride whhhheeeeeeooop! Was that a crow with a human bottom? This trip is whacky.

Anyway, my good chum Bertram Bum Roberts has been staying with me the last few weeks and he's one hell of a groovy guy, allot like you folks I guess? A huge appetite for tripping out.

So, Bertie and I were high as kites last Tuesday, I was telling him all about a weird hallucination that I'd just experienced when he became very exited and told me to write the whole thing down and post it on Poo Chat (we're all big fans in the Beatles, Ringo says it makes him feel randy, randy bloody Ringo: the dirty git - that's what we call him anyway.).

The acid craziness started with a huge vegetarian sausage looming over me "You'd better make some poorly thought out comments about how farmers are gay and pointless or I'll be up your bum like Kerry Katona up a cabbie's trouser leg" boomed the Cumberland. Who the fuck is Kerry Katona, I thought? But good advice none the less.

But as soon as I was starting to enjoy Mr Sausage's company, he dashed off with my pants and trousers (luckily I keep my cash in a bum bag)! Lost and forlorn I had no idea what to do next; I appeared to be in a deserted city from the future. I had aged significantly but my skin was tighter, I felt like a bed that had been to tightly tucked in. Also, my hair had turned into a cloud of orangey-brown fart that stuck to my scalp where ever I went. I don't know where Bertie had found this acid, but it was strong shit.

Suddenly a frightening high-pitched Geordie voice echoed throughout the deserted streets!

"Paul you scrotey little died haired runt! You're shit at music and you're thumbs-up 'dance the night away' wank-shop song is the shittest thing I've ever heard!"

"Help! Somebody, please help!" I shrieked. I was petrified; this was some bad acid man.

"Make me hop to the shitter would you?" The voice squealed back. "After all that charity work, you still won't let me unload my bowels under the sheets!"

Just then the voice took a physical form; a peg-legged mad-woman appeared. I turned and ran, as I did all of my lovely money started tumbling from my bum-bag. I ran, and I ran. And then I ran some more, but fucking hell that hop-along bint could move (I found it strangely saucy though, as the bulge in my bum-bag reduced the one underneath it increased).

Suddenly I snapped out of it... phew! It was one hell of a ride, but it scared the bejesus out of me. It was then I decided that I should get my twatty security-look-a-like Dan to take my place and live the rest of my life for me. This fame gig was getting too crazy for a nice scouser like me.

Besides, if that's what I've got in store I'd much rather Dan dealt with it (because he's a bit of a twat).